


An Act Of Love

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9204350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: Illya's evening takes an unexpected turn.Happy New Year, everyone.





	

 

Illya crossed the snow-covered street to his Greenwich Village brownstone, his mind caught up in a pleasant contemplation of the fresh tiger prawns he had purchased for his supper. _Saut_ _ée_ _d in olive oil and garlic,_ he decided, _with a splash of vermouth and lime juice, and perhaps some diced red chilies._ He pictured the finished dish, pink prawns arranged on a bed of baby greens and topped with a lovely, buttery reduction, and smiled in anticipation.

It had snowed for most of the day, tapering off to flurries as night fell, and the air was crisp and cold. In Times Square, people were gathering by the thousands to watch the ball drop, ushering in the New Year. Christmas lights still blinked gaily in a few windows, and icicles sparkled along the eaves. In the street, parked cars sat beneath the streetlamps' homey glow, their roofs buried under powdery domes of snow.

Illya shifted the bag of groceries to his other arm, and fished in the pocket of his jeans for the key. As he opened the front door, the sound of a radio drifted out from his landlady's ground floor apartment. _This is Casey Kasem, counting down the top one-hundred hits of 1968. Coming in at number twenty, here's Sly and the Family Stone with Dance to the Music..._

He climbed the three flights of stairs to his apartment, pleased that the leg injury he'd sustained during his recent stint in a Turkish prison was healing nicely. He would be able to return to fieldwork soon. He opened the door, and reached for the security panel to disarm the system.

He froze. The light shone a steady green. _Disarmed!_ Someone was in the apartment!

He turned, shifting onto the balls of his feet. He drew his weapon, and flipped on the light.

“Don't shoot. I give up.”

Napoleon sat on the sofa, luggage piled at his feet, a half-empty glass of scotch in his hand.

“Polya!” Illya's heart sang with surprise and happiness. He dropped the bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter, secured his weapon, and held out his arms.

Napoleon melted into them. “Illyusha.” Their lips met in a kiss, devastatingly deep and thorough, a promise of greater intimacies to come. Napoleon buried his face against his lover's shoulder with a sigh of contentment, and held on like he never wanted to let go.

Illya breathed in the scent of him, rubbed his cheek against the soft, dark hair, felt the warmth of Napoleon's heart against his own. “This is a wonderful surprise, Polya. I wasn't expecting you until the 3rd. How did you manage to get away early?”

A shrug. “Rank hath its privileges. How's the leg?”

“Better.” Illya brushed an errant lock of hair back from Napoleon's brow, caressed the beginnings of stubble lining his jaw. “You look tired, _lubimy'i_.”

“Long flight. You should have seen the holiday crowds at Heathrow. Total chaos – flight delays, screaming children, the whole nine yards. I was lucky to book a seat.”

“The famous Solo luck. It never fails you.” Illya stepped into the tiny kitchen, and began unpacking the bag of groceries. “I'm making tiger prawns for supper. Hungry?”

“After four days of bubble and squeak, bad coffee and digestives? Starving.” Napoleon settled back on the sofa, and retrieved his scotch. He tilted the glass this way and that, watching the amber liquid swirl.

“The Summit went well?”

"Peachy.”

Illya's hands stilled. “Problems?”

“None worth mentioning.” He drained the glass.

Illya abandoned the groceries, and went to sit beside his partner. He reached for his hand. “Was it very bad?” he asked quietly.

“Leave it, Illya.”

“No. Tell me.”

They glared at one another; the clock on the wall ticked off the seconds. Finally, Napoleon sighed. “You're not going to give up, are you?”

“Would you?”

Another sigh. He stared into the empty glass. “It was a disaster. Waverly –” Just saying the name opened up a raw wound in Napoleon's heart. “Waverly's death has shocked the Section One heads to the core. They're like a ship without a captain, drifting along on the tide, with no one willing to take the helm.”

Illya could not conceal his dismay. Things were worse than they had feared. “Understandable, that they would be deeply affected by his passing. Give them time.”

“Time is a luxury we don't have. Events are moving in the world, and THRUSH senses our indecision. They've mounted an all-out offensive, testing our resolve, probing our weaknesses. You're CEA now. You've seen the reports.”

Illya nodded, his expression grim.

“Vietnam. the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. The riots in Chicago, and the strikes in Poland and France. THRUSH is fanning the flames, waiting to see if we will move to stop them. Agents are dying out there, Illyusha. Innocents are dying. It's up to the Section One heads to direct a unified response, but all they seem to be able to do is argue. God, how they argue! Everybody talks, but nobody listens, and in the end, nothing gets decided. Four days of endless, aimless babble, and the only thing they managed to agree upon was a tentative date for the next meeting. Emphasis on 'tentative.'”

“They have always been a fractious group. Powerful men seldom agree on anything easily.”

“'Fractious.' That's one word for it, I suppose.” He looked up, eyes red-rimmed with fatigue and too much alcohol. “I'm not cut out for this, Illyusha. I belong in the field with you, not in some ivory tower, issuing useless dictums and evaluating health plans.”

“I daresay Mr. Waverly had a different view of the job,” Illya remarked mildly.

Napoleon blushed to the roots of his hair. "Oh damn, I didn't mean -"

“You have had a shock, _lyubimy'i._ We all have. There has been a death in the family, and we are grieving. But remember this – Waverly chose you to succeed him for a reason. He believed you were the best man for the job.”

“That makes one of us.”

“Two.” He stroked the fleshy base of Napoleon's thumb. “Waverly was not infallible, but he was right about you. Of that, I am certain.”

Napoleon stared down at their entwined fingers. “Christ, it's been an awful year.”

Illya nodded. There were no words to express what had been lost.

“Maybe it's time I retired. Got out of the game, and did something else with my life.”

Blue eyes widened in surprise. “ _Our_ lives. And don't be ridiculous. You are not some delicate hothouse flower, to wilt at the first challenge. You are a warrior. A survivor. The one who thinks outside the box.”

“I'm just – so tired –”

Illya came to a decision. “You will feel better once you eat something. Go and have a shower while I _saut_ _é_ the prawns.” He pulled his partner to his feet.

Napoleon's smile was sad. “You think every problem can be solved with food and a hot shower.”

“The simplest remedies are often the best. Now go, before I am tempted to join you. Supper will be waiting when you come out.”

*/*/*/

By the time Napoleon emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of Illya's old bathrobes, supper was on the table. The prawns sat, pink and plump on their bed of greens, beside glasses of _Konzer T_ _ä_ _lchen_ _Riesling._

Illya glanced up. “Better?”

“Cleaner.”

They sat down at Illya's rickety kitchen table. Illya watched his partner take a tentative bite, and then a larger one.

“This is good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I shouldn't be, I suppose. You cook like a Michelin chef, speak enough languages to confound a UN translator, and you sew like a Paris designer. What other talents are you hiding?”

“Perhaps I can show you later, if you are feeling up to it.”

Napoleon smiled, and this time, the smile reached his eyes. “We really should get an apartment together.”

“It would be wonderful,” Illya agreed, “someday. Alas, I do not think society is ready for our sort of love just yet.”

“Ask me if I care what society thinks.”

They finished their meal, talking about normal things. The recent snowstorm, and the number of days until Spring. The latest album of _ragas_ by Ravi Shankar. Illya's landlady's unfortunate attempt at a pickled beet casserole, its congealed remains awaiting covert disposal on trash day. Occasionally, their fingertips brushed against one another, a touch that sent tender _frissons_ up and down Illya's spine. Don Cherry's _Eternal Rhythm_ played softly on the stereo.

At last, Napoleon pushed back from the table with a sigh of satisfaction. He reached for their empty plates. “Here, let me get those.”

“No,” Illya replied, and kissed him gently on the lips. “I will take care of it. Go and snuggle under the covers – I will be there in no time.”

“But –”

“Let me do this for you, _lyubimy'i_.”

”In that case -" Napoleon feathered a kiss on Illya's cheek. “Don't be too long _.”_ He disappeared into the bedroom.

As Illya ran the hot water in the sink, he heard the faucet in the bathroom, the faint rustling of bedcovers, and the familiar squeak of the mattress as Napoleon climbed into their bed. He rolled up his sleeves, and slid his arms into the soapy water.

When the dishes were done, he left them on the rack to dry, checked the security settings on the door alarm, and padded toward the bedroom. He shed his clothing, leaving it in a pile on the floor, and slipped into bed beside his partner.

Napoleon's eyes grew dark and sultry. “Now, then. About those hidden talents...”

Legs and arms tangled in the bedclothes as they positioned themselves; Illya kicked the quilt to the floor with a huff of impatience. Their bodies came together, mouths devouring one another in an urgent coupling fueled by aching love and devastating grief. Hands touched intimate places; fingers probed. Their soft cries turned to animal grunts of passion. A final series of thrusts, and Napoleon came, shuddering, gasping Illya's name. Illya followed moments later, clutching Napoleon's buttocks as the waves of pleasure tumbled over him.

Napoleon kissed Illya's mouth, his neck, his chest. His body trembled with the aftershocks of their lovemaking. _“Moya blestyashchaya l'yubov',”_ he sighed.

“Shh. Sleep now, _moya krasivaya l'yubov'._ ”**

He drifted off to sleep, head pillowed on Illya's chest, the soft, warm sound of his breath mingling with the hiss of the radiator, and the clanging of the pipes in the basement below. A smile curled the corners of his lips. Illya lay awake until dawn, listening to the night sounds, and watching over Napoleon as the snow gently fell outside their bedroom window.

*/*/*/

 

_*(my brilliant love)_

_** (my beautiful love)_

 

 


End file.
